


the red sky is giving a warning

by orphan_account



Series: i'm weak, my love (i'm too wanting) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, He gets better, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonverbal Character, Other, geralt being convinced hes terrible, nb geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He wasn't in the mood for scars and misshapen hips, too long legs or a broad torso. He wasn't in the mood to wear the clothing he picked out either, but he brutally ignored the part of his mind requesting something softer; something sweeter.Witchers weren't sweet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: i'm weak, my love (i'm too wanting) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632907
Comments: 30
Kudos: 530





	the red sky is giving a warning

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmmmm this made me cry a little to write

It had been a long day, the sun casting vast shadows across the sky as Geralt and Jaskier settled down for the night. Geralt could almost enjoy the quiet rustle of long grasses, and the sweet  _ warmcontentsafe _ scent of Jaskier puttering around behind him. 

Almost. 

Jaskier was mumbling to himself, per usual. Normally Geralt could tune that out as well, used to the soft scratch of charcoal against parchment and Jaskier's attempts at lyrics. However, normally the lyrics weren't about  _ Geralt _ . His conquests and victories maybe, spinning overexaggerated tales like a weaver. Never about how he looked, though. Yet here he was, quietly bringing to attention things Geralt did his best to stamp from sight, and all he wanted to do was scream. 

It  _ hurt _ , and even going over to Roach couldn't get him away from it. The idea of bringing it up was too much to comprehend, on top of it. Even the thought of Jaskier knowing, assuming, made his throat clench tighter than normal and made his stomach curdle. His own scent was sour in his nose,  _ worryangerbad _ clinging to him. Roach noticed with a whinny, headbutting his chest softly and drawing Jaskier's attention from his blasted lute.

"Brush too hard, eh?" He jokingly asked, knowing Geralt would never be rough with his beloved Roach. Geralt didn't warrant a reply, merely grunting and turning to brush against the mare's forehead; stroking a thumb across the white crest, he tried to ignore the knowing look in her eye. Damn horse always knew too much, Geralt would swear she was blessed with  _ some _ sort of magic. 

"Come on, Geralt! Talk to me a bit, all you've done today is mumble under your breath." Geralt rolled his eyes, getting another headbutt from Roach for his troubles. The idea of speaking at that moment made him wish he was born mute, his voice too deep in his bones and crawling under his skin like maggots. 

Jaskier watched him carefully as he began to braid the horse's mane, eyes appraising. "Is it one of those days?" The question was simple but meant so much more at that moment. Geralt didn't nod, simply letting the coarse hair stroke over his fingers and letting Jaskier understand the obvious. "Right, then. How about I sing an older song and let off the writing for today? It wasn't going any which way, no skin off my back." 

Geralt hummed a response, before grimacing lightly. He prayed to the faceless gods that Jaskier hadn't noticed, though his luck didn't hold. 

"What's wrong, dear, are you getting ill? Can witchers fall ill? I'll brew some of the tea that innkeep left with us anyway, don't worry your pretty head about it." Jaskier rambled as he moved, filling the silence and not needing any answer to his questions. It made something warm flutter in his chest. 

He ignored it. 

  
  


\----------

The weeks had been passing in the slow, easy way of Summer. The sun was a vivid glint in the sky, gleaming down on the two companions with gentle rays and a gentler breeze. Geralt had even been speaking more, soaking in the warmth like a lazy cat. His voice was quieter, soft in the air and flowing over Jaskier as he retold old stories and answered the questions Jaskier had burning at the tip of his tongue. 

It didn't help Jaskier's slowly falling heart that the easy summer days seemed to bring something out from within Geralt. The silver and white of his hair seemed almost molten in the bright sun, and the typically unhealthy pallor of his skin held a new flush to it that Jaskier had never seen before. He was almost glowing with it, even more energetic than how sleepy he had seemed in the winter. 

It warmed a part in the bard's chest to see him so much more relaxed. Happily talking to Roach - _ Jaskier should not find it so endearing for a man to talk to his horse on the regular _ \- or explaining the effects of magical plants to Jaskier as he came across them, seeming to know an endless fount of information about each type of grass or flower. Jaskier noted to himself to try and find a botany book Geralt might enjoy. 

They had stopped for a midday meal when it had happened. Sitting idly by eachother and eating cool bread with cooler water, Jaskier watched with an impressive amount of joy as a hummingbird landed near Geralt's shoulder. A mere blur of wings and a deep emerald green, Geralt seemed surprised as the small bird flitted around his head for a moment before zipping off to the closest flower. 

Jaskier couldn't stop himself from complimenting the other, caught up in the silver glint of his hair and the quiet strength of his lean body; the simple finery of emerald feathers stark against a pale face and amber eyes. "You're so lovely, dear. So sweet. 

\----------

"You're so lovely, dear. So sweet."

Geralt huffed, brushing down Roach's flank and steadfastly ignoring the man. 

"You don't believe me? How lovely you are?"

"Stop lying."

Jaskier paused for a moment, and the air almost thinned in the clearing. "Why would I lie? I've never lied to you, Geralt. You know that as well as I do." 

"And yet here we are." It was a hollow repeat of an old conversation they had, and repeating the words made Geralt want to snarl. 

"Here we are  _ not _ ." Jaskier declared, moving to stand. "I will not have you thinking any of what I said was untrue, even if I have to write another song." 

"I would  _ kill you."  _ He really did snarl at that, ducking into Roach's familiar mane and pretending to brush it, hoping the argument would drop after his false threat.

"Why, by Melitele's tits, would you think I'm lying?" He implored again, throwing his hands up. 

"Witchers-" Geralt pauses, frustrated at how not enough the words were. "Witchers aren't pretty. They're not soft, or whatever else. I don't need you to lie to me about it." 

He growls when he sees Jaskier's expression, something awed and broken in its feeling. " _ What _ ?"

"Geralt.. Do you not realize? I would never lie to you, do you truly not understand what I see?"

"What you see, bard, isn't the truth."

"I think I know what my eyes are telling me, Geralt." Jaskier snapped, worry turning to irritation at the jab. 

"Obviously not, if you're so insistent on this shit." The most Geralt has said in a week, and it was an argument. Of course. He couldn't even expend the energy to be surprised anymore, this always happened no matter who was traveling with him. An argument starts and stops and starts, and then they leave and he never sees them again after so many nights. This wouldn't be any different.

He was so tired.

"I will have you know I'm completely aware of what I'm saying,  _ Geralt _ ." Jaskier had moved closer at some point, "And I know what you're trying to do! Don't think your comments are going to change the subject, I know how you are!" 

"Then you should know to leave well enough alone!" He finally snapped, regretting his tone immediately after it was said. Why couldn't he get it? 

"You know what.  _ Fine _ . I'm not done with this conversation though, Geralt. I'll get this through your thick skull one way or another." He crossed his arms with a huff. "I  _ will _ write a song, don't tempt me." 

\----------

"Stop." Geralt managed, head throbbing. Jaskier had gone on another tangent again. The thick pollen in the air had given Geralt a headache, and Jaskier's typically soothing voice was only worsening it with each inhale he took. 

"No! Geralt, for the love of the Gods, why can't you just talk to me? You need to talk about this-"

"I said stop!" He shouted, turning his head violently to glare at Jaskier. Black spots erupted in his vision when he turned. "Let it drop. I don't owe you anything."

"That's not what I-"

"Just shut up and walk, bard."

The silence that followed was almost worse than Jaskier's endless questions, but he was quiet and that was all Geralt could ask for at this point. He'd take the suffocating feeling of blue eyes on his back and claws digging through his underbelly over the horror of being  _ known _ like that any day. 

He'd take anything over being known like that, even though he could barely comprehend himself what 'like that' even meant. Geralt knew he was strange, compared to the other boys at Kaer Morhen. Too sensitive at first, then too lithe, then too cold, until all he knew to do was stamp down each part of it lest he turn out like the rest of the Witchers of old; dead and decayed in an unmarked grave. Surviving was first and anything after that was unimportant. There were monsters to kill and people to save, and Geralt didn't have time to focus on himself when he was the only one able to stop them. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had time for himself that wasn't after bloodshed, either way. Why bother to change a system that worked? 

The silence dredged on, thick in the air and carrying on the wind like leaves. Geralt couldn't bring himself to feel bad, and yet he did anyway. It was strange, the upset clinging to the inside of his ribs and eating away with the beat of his heart and the rise of his lungs. 

He wished his head would stop hurting. 

  
\----------

"I told you I'm not letting this conversation die! We both know bloody well that I'm absolute bollocks at lying. You've had to pull my arse out of enough taverns to be well acquainted with this flagrant disability of mine. "

"Jaskier." 

"Frankly, it astounds me that you can look in the mirror or a stream each day and  _ not _ be forced into a narcissist state. I know if I looked like you I would." 

" _ Jaskier _ ."

"I meant it about those songs! I already have the chorus to one and I am not fearful to use it if I must. I refuse to allow my best friend to think so lowly of himself–"

The last statement had something snapping in Geralt. Some strange thing about it made his skin crawl like his voice so oft did, and he found himself turning to growl at Jaskier.

"Shut. Up." 

"Geralt, you-"

Geralt felt exhaustion flow through him like an illness. His head was hurting again. "Stop. Just.. stop. You don't have to lie to me to spare my feelings. I'm not any of those things anymore." 

Anymore? 

"But Geralt, you are. Why won't you believe me? Nothing has changed, you've always been so, so good."

Geralt sighed, folding and allowing himself one moment to close his eyes. "Everything has changed, Jaskier. I haven't been myself since I was a child."

"Don't you want to be?" 

Caught off guard, he turned slightly towards the bard. "What?"

"Don't you want to be yourself again?" The question stung. As if Geralt hadn't wanted to be anything but a witcher. As if he had a  _ choice _ . 

Geralt opened his mouth to answer before closing it with a decidedly sharp noise. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the other before he made a strangled noise. 

"This is not a hard question, love." He glowered further at the pet name, crossing his arms and moving to sit by the fire; away from the bard and his ridiculous mouth and ever more ridiculous words.  _ Love _ . As if that were something Geralt had the privilege to know about. 

He never was allowed it, after all. Even with Yennifer -exposing those soft, tender parts of himself only wound up with him bleeding inside and mourning something that never existed. No one wanted a barren, and no one wanted a Witcher. Love was an illness he could not afford to catch.

Jaskier frowned heavily when he received no answer, clicking his tongue and moving to sit beside him on the packed ground. "Are you going to answer at all, or have we reached the conclusion of this conversation?"

Geralt gave him a sharp look, and Jaskier held his hands up in defeat. "Alright, alright! Talking is over." Geralt sighed in relief. "That doesn't mean you can't listen, though."

What. 

At the rather intimidating stare sent his way, Jaskier rolled his eyes dramatically and held a finger up. "I'm not going to stand around and watch you be miserable when I can do something to help." He said it as if it was obvious. "What? Don't look at me like that! I'm your  _ friend _ , Geralt." 

Geralt didn't blink, his face nonplussed and unimpressed. If his voice hadn't flown away like a bat he would've had quite a bit to say in response to that, mainly consisting of 'Fuck you's and 'Leave me alone's. As it was, he simply snarled lightly and turned to poke at the fire.

"I mean it, you oaf. You're my friend, quite literally one of my only friends if I'm completely honest with you."

The silence that Geralt did not fill made Jaskier sigh with a broken defeat, and he fell quiet with a painful reluctance. 

Geralt hated himself for being grateful for it. 

\---------

Jaskier was fairly certain that he had truly, undeniably lost his - somewhat already unhinged - mind. 

Geralt of Rivia, the butcher of Blaviken  ~~Jaskier scolded himself mentally for even thinking that one, knowing how horribly it upset Geralt whenever anyone used it.~~ wouldn't accept things he thought he didn't need. Jaskier couldn't wrap his head around it, considering what  _ Geralt _ thought he didn't need versus what  _ Jaskier _ thought Geralt didn't need were two very,  _ very _ differing subjects entirely. 

So here Jaskier found himself, in an argument with what could amount to the most dangerous person in the inn they were staying at. Jaskier, of course, wasn't afraid. He knew Geralt wouldn't hurt him, had known since he met the witcher that he was safe, safer than anyone else. Even his heart was safe. Unfortunately, his trust wasn't enough to convince the villagers, but they were working on it.

Back to his point. 

Jaskier could not believe they were arguing over a blanket, but he couldn't deny that the strangest aspects of life were the most fruitful. Geralt wanted to leave, and had seemingly convinced himself that he couldn't freeze to death in the violent Temerian winters without more than a saddeningly thin, overused blanket. 

Jaskier was of a very different opinion, as stated. He would greatly prefer it if his muse and witcher wouldn't plan his own frozen demise on account of being too stubborn to take care of himself. 

It didn't help that Geralt was obviously sick, and if the weather didn't take him out then overworking with the poisoned fever he had clearly would. 

"Why is it wrong, then?" Jaskier challenged, "You're kind and sweet, you give and give and give while all anyone else does is take. You deserve to have something nice!" It was so obvious to Jaskier that Geralt was soft, softer than he was comfortable admitting. He tried to hide behind layers and layers of walls to protect himself, but Jaskier had always been good at breaking things when necessary.

" _ Everything _ is wrong!" He snapped, at his wits end. Somewhere along the line the fight had shifted from a mere supplies list to something deeper, something that scared Geralt. Jaskier hated seeing him so afraid of himself. 

"That doesn't answer anything." He griped. He could feel the tension rise and knew something would give soon. 

"What are you so scared of?" It was a last ditch attempt, futile in its efforts to reach out. 

  
\----------

"What are you so scared of?" 

Geralt turned back towards his packs, feeling his temper flare when Jaskier stood and moved in front of him. 

"Geralt. Please answer-"

" _ Everything is wrong _ . This shit broke me, can't you see that?" Talking about it made his skin crawl. He could still remember the fear he felt when his hair grew white, when his body twisted in on itself and came out looking  _ wrong _ . Better than before, but still so unsettling that he wanted nothing more than to bury himself away. 

"What do you mean?" 

"What else could I mean?" The Witcher rattled, "I'm  _ wrong,  _ Jaskier." The words felt like sand between his teeth, and Geralt wondered if this would finally ruin him. He didn't wait for Jaskier's answer, turning and sitting on the bed with a grumble. Everything seemed to hurt. The sounds, the lights, even Jaskier's stupid perfect pitch was a claw across his skull as the potion ran through its toxicity. 

Geralt could hardly breathe, each noise taking across his eardrum and splitting his head. He had over prepared for that fight, too worried on what it could become to focus on the aftermath of it; chills splicing up his spine that informed him he was the proud owner of a fever. Geralt sighed, beginning to unbuckle the heavy armor weighing his shoulders and arms down. It would be little help to worsen the toxicity's effects by overheating himself. Besides, the heavy weight of leather and steel -normally a comfort,  _ secure _ \- was pressing bruises into his flesh and slowly strangling him at this point. 

He flinched harshly when Jaskier shifted to sit next to him, growling as his senses screamed - _ dangerdangerdangerdanger _ \- before forcing himself to take a short breath. The room remained silent, Jaskier staying near, a warm heat against the thick flesh of his thigh and waist. He miraculously didn't make a sound, his breathing a soothing tempo that Geralt found himself following to drown out the too vivid world around him. Geralt hardly moved when Jaskier raised a hand to hover uncertainly near his face, before pressing against his forehead with more bravery than Geralt had seen in quite some time. 

"You have a fever." Jaskier's voice was hushed, as if trying not to grate. "You need to rest while the potions wear off, Geralt. Your face is grey."

"'S just the black blood." He huffed, hiding his minute flinch when his throat throbbed angrily. His head was a viscous mess, pulsing with his heart -  _ when did his heart speed up?- _ and making his mouth water from a wave of nausea. Maybe Jaskier had a point. 

He didn't warrant an answer, but the soft noise he made was all Jaskier needed to grin and stand. "I told you, dear. Sometimes it's best just to listen to what your body -and me- say." He kept on for a moment, before Geralt sighed a strained noise. Jaskier stopped at that, tutting again. "Lay down, then. Finish taking your armor off and get in bed. You can have a bath after you've slept this off." 

Geralt was reluctant to move, his stomach churning; he slowly shifted to unbuckle the heavy padding across his chest and underbelly. He set it as gingerly as he could next to the things he had slipped off immediately. "Need to oil it all." He muttered. 

"Not until later, we've already been through this. A nap is in order first. Gods know you've done enough for today, take a break." Firm hands pressed him to lay down on the thin mattress, moving down to unlace his boots and pull them off. "Oh my- bath  _ first _ thing waking up." 

Geralt chuckled in surprise, curling up faintly in an attempt to block his ears off. He half forced his face into the flat pillow, "Check the lock." His voice was rasping against his larynx, painful. 

"I'll say it again: good Gods, Geralt. The door is locked, you're safe. I promise." The bard's voice was firm and sure as he spoke, yanking the blanket out from under the muse's still form and draping it up to his shoulders. 

Geralt wondered why he let him.

Tanned hands stroked across his forehead before the bard made a displeased noise. "Sleep, Geralt. You've done good for others, do some for yourself now." Jaskier's dry palm pressed gently down, and Geralt obediently let his eyes flutter shut.

  
\----------

Jaskier sat quietly while Geralt finally gave in to sleep, watching his face smooth out as time passed. The worry that burned in his chest would not be quenched with merely convincing the stubborn man to sleep, no. He had to watch for himself to make sure the potions faded; dead grey skin and sunken in cheeks, Jaskier hated his damned concoctions with every new one he drank. 

Geralt's hair had fallen free from his tie, and Jaskier had to resist the urge to brush it from his forehead. Following the silvered strands, he faintly noted his disturbing ability to trace the witcher's thin veins through his skin; the capillaries dark and black, unnatural. He  _ really _ hated those potions. 

Jaskier must've made some noise of malcontent, as Geralt shifted with a sudden jerk and crinkled his nose slightly. Jaskier stilled as if made of marble, holding his breath. He had learned through several accidents that Geralt was an almost supernaturally light sleeper. The simplest change in Jaskier's breathing could have him snapping up and rushing for a dagger, still half blind from sleep and dangerous all the same. 

Thankfully the potions weighed heavily, keeping Geralt under as his liver rushed to force the toxins out of his body. Jaskier could faintly see color return to the high arch of his cheeks, his lips no longer a deadly shade of suffocation blue. Thick, blond eyelashes rested against the thin skin of his face, and Jaskier felt inspired in the most painful way. 

Geralt was his muse and he didn't quite know what to do about that, besides follow him and make sure he stayed safe, stayed  _ alive. _ Jaskier wished he was allowed to do more, wished he could stroke through his hair and wash it gently; wished to shave his face and press small kisses against the line of his jaw and high brow. 

More than anything he wished he could see Geralt smile. Not the small grins and smirks he'd let out when Jaskier said something particularly clever, but a genuine  _ smile. _

If only Geralt would let him.

  
\----------

They were resting in an old, rundown inn. The beds were thin and ragged, the blankets threadbare; but they were clean and the door could lock. Geralt had been soaking in the tub, sneakily using magic to warm the water back up when it cooled enough to chill his skin. It was nice, being clean. Selkimore gore stuck like nothing else to the strands of his hair, not even the slickest oil cleaning it until after he dampened the silver hair for some time.

Jaskier had been out downstairs, and if Geralt focused the lightest amount he could hear the heavy chanting singing along to some song or another of the bard's. The music was nice from a distance, but he was glad he hadn't been coerced by the other to come downstairs. The scents and noise were the perfect recipe for a horrific headache, something Geralt had very little tolerance for even after all the years with his senses. 

The heat soaked into his bones and he sighed, leaning back into the wood and enjoying the feeling of old, old aches being soothed. The twinge in his hip had faded to a vague echo of itself, and the scars raking across his lower back were merely that: scars. 

Eventually he was forced to get out, his skin thinning and wrinkling. Geralt moved with a noise of complaint, rinsing his hair and squeezing as much water out as possible before he got dressed. It was a silent affair, and he messily tied his hair back before leaving the water and making to dress as quickly as possible. He wasn't in the mood for scars and misshapen hips, too long legs or a broad torso. He wasn't in the mood to wear the clothing he picked out either, but he brutally ignored the part of his mind requesting something softer; something sweeter. 

Witchers weren't  _ sweet _ .

Geralt was already dressed and dry by the time Jaskier returned, somewhat heady off of honeyed ale and grinning like a fool when he spotted Geralt. 

"Hullo there, my lovely muse." The man beamed, wondering over the bed where Geralt had nested and poking until he scooted over. "What have we been doing since my triumphant victories down below."

Geralt snorted, raising an eyebrow. " _ I've  _ been reading over a report on necrophages. Afraid I've little clue on what you mean with this 'we', though." 

Jaskier pouted at that, before brazenly moving to brush hair behind Geralt's ear. "A shame, then. I had thought we were going some place." That only earned him another eye roll, but he counted it as a victor nonetheless. "Say, Geralt-?"

Geralt glanced up from where he had returned his attention to the report, enjoying the easy heat Jaskier gave off. "Hm?" 

"You should let me do your hair. I've three sisters, Melitele knows I've had plenty of practice with braids and plaits." 

Geralt paused at the request, trying not to tense and give away his excitement nor his hesitation. "And what brings this question?" He asked, rolling up the sleeve of the thick, large shirt he had thrown on. 

"Your hair- it's sticking up quite stubbornly. Don't think I ever realized it was meant to curl until just now." Geralt blinked at that, he hadn't known his hair had become a mess upon his head. 

"Is it that bad?"

"You look akin to a very ruffled barkeep right now, love." Geralt couldn't stop himself from snorting at that comparison. He knew exactly what Jaskier meant with it. 

"If you must. Pull too hard and I yank on yours too, though." 

A scoff, "Thought I just told you I'm practically an expert." 

The feel of gentle hands through his hair forced Geralt to pause for a moment, before he forced himself to relax and continue reading. He reluctantly acknowledged that Jaskier was in fact correct; he barely felt a thing as the man braided and pinned his hair back. 

"See there. Told you so!" Jaskier crowed once Geralt hummed a small tone of appreciation. 

"Don't make me take it out, bard." The false threat only made Jaskier roll his eyes with a bark of laughter, before rising up from the bed.

"You should let me line your eyes, Geralt. It'd look amazing. Besides- you have a recipe for eyeliner, don't you?" That brought Geralt up to short. 

"I- what?" 

Jaskier patiently answered again. "Let me line your eyes, and maybe your lips. You'd make quite a lovely sight." 

Part of Geralt wants to say yes immediately, to let Jaskier do as he wished and be damned with what anyone else said; the rest of him was betraying in its silence. A sigh to mask his nerves, before he finally answered. "Fine. Don't make me look like a raccoon, though." The smile he received made his heart stutter. 

"You're flawless! Here, sit on the edge of the bed for me while I gather up all I need." He poked at Geralt until he complied and swung his legs over the thin mattress. "There we go! Sit right there." 

Geralt watched with disguised curiosity as Jaskier shifted through the copious bags he carried, pulling out several vials and setting them to the side. Eventually, he made a small noise of victory and withdrew two thin brushes. Geralt tried not to be offended that they were horse haired. 

The room was silent as Jaskier worked, mixing and matching as he attempted to create a specific shade he insisted would look perfect. It seemed all too soon before he was moving towards Geralt with a small dish, brushes in hand and a determined look in his eye. 

The gentle sound of the brushes clinking make Geralt tense up, but Jaskier soothed him with a small sound as he moved closer. "Close your eyes, Geralt." The command was gentle and easy, and Geralt found himself obeying without even fully comprehending it.

He tried to relax, knowing it was all too obvious that he was as tense as a whip cord. Sitting still, waiting for this  _ human _ to draw near and take care of him like he claimed. Geralt could hardly believe he was letting it happen, and had scarcely started to wonder how he had fallen into this specific rabbit hole when the brush touched the thin skin of his eye.

He flinched slightly, but another noise from Jaskier and he forced himself to sit still. "You're safe, Geralt. I would never hurt you, and the door is locked." Jaskier's voice was calm and steady, something in it helping soothe the ache in Geralt's chest. The brush traced the line of his lashes slowly, and Geralt could feel the film of liner as it cooled in the air. 

He didn't know how to feel about liking it; he didn't know how to feel about a lot of things anymore.

All too soon Jaskier was moving to the other eye, murmuring reassurances and humming a poem underneath his breath. Something about a red sky, Geralt hardly listened to the words but found himself enjoying it anyway. He opened his eyes when Jaskier drew back, watching the man curiously as he froze for a split second before coming back to himself. 

"What?" Geralt asked, unable to stop himself -think of that! The man who only talks to his horse unable to stop talking around this bard, of all people.

"What do you mean, 'what?'" Jaskier responded, looking faintly amused. 

"You were staring." 

"How could I not? You're glowing." He said it as if it was obvious, and Geralt blinked in surprise. The compliment made his throat tighten, and he was silent for a moment before swallowing. 

"Am I?" Jaskier  _ beamed. _

_ " _ I'm of the personal opinion that you're always lovely, but especially so now. Here- let me finish the rest and then you can look." He nodded and closed his eyes again, surprising himself with how  _ easy _ it was. If he sat still and patient he could almost believe it was real. A brush was dragging against his cheeks now, then moving down to brush gently over his lips and paint them.

Jaskier had shifted closer to focus, eyes watching Geralt's lips with an appraisal in them. Geralt could feel soft puffs of his breath as he breathed in that fast human way, heart thrumming a hummingbird tempo in Geralt's ears due to their proximity. He could feel his face slowly heating up, and prayed the rouge would disguise it as mere blush.

Jaskier moved away all too soon, and Geralt tried to shove down the twinge of reluctance he felt at the newfound distance. The silence spread between them like something thick, almost unbreakable until Geralt spoke. "Are you done?" 

Ah! Yes- yes! I am." Jaskier smiled, before standing with a dramatic flourish. "Here, allow me to grab you a mirror. One moment, please." 

As he moved to grab one from his bag in the spare room, Geralt sat on the bed and tried not to hunch in on himself. The sudden loss of Jaskier's presence, even if it was just a measly wall away. What was he doing? What a sight he must've made, the mighty witcher trying to pretend like he was something worth looking at. 

Jaskier coming back only fueled the horror growing in his stomach. Was he just humoring this? Snickering in his mind over Geralt's grapple with himself. It wouldn't make any sense- Jaskier had smelt and seemed completely earnest with each thing he did, and yet the doubt gnawed at Geralt's mind like an animal. 

"Geralt, what's wrong?" The bard's voice was concerned and clear, and he moved over with a hand mirror in a loose fist. 

Geralt tried to get away with a small grunt, his interest in talking having faded to something dusted and dry. The look Jaskier gave him at the noise forced a response out of his throat."Nothing, it's nothing." The rasp of his tone in the air almost made him flinch, too deep and too husked; it wasn't  _ his _ voice. 

Jaskier kept a careful eye on him as he handed over the silver backed mirror, making sure the witcher gripped it in a steady fist before letting go. Geralt took a breath before turning it towards him, blinking as his face came into focus and he saw a clear picture of his reflection. 

The  _ rightness _ of it made a sob well up in Geralt's throat, but he wasn't a witcher for nothing and forced it back down with the same vindication he used for any monster. He had barely looked at himself for more than a minute before he set the mirror roughly on the bed. Jaskier made a noise as he did so, but he ignored it in favor of ripping his hair out of the braid it had been put in. 

Geralt was already moving to scrub the kohl from his eyes and wipe the rouge off, but Jaskier had somehow seen and moved to take a sinewed wrist in his own hand. "Geralt, there's nothing wrong with this."

There was something in his voice that made Geralt pause from his typical retort, made him glance up and see the awe on Jaskier's face. The gentle way he held Geralt's wrist - like he was something fragile and important. Geralt's face still stung from repressed tears and his chest was sore but somehow Jaskier saw beauty anyway. 

"Don't take it off yet," Jaskier asked gently, imploringly. "It suits you." His voice seemed so soft, so honest that Geralt could almost believe him. Almost. He wanted to believe him so badly. 

"This is stupid." Geralt tried not to let the crestfallen look on Jaskier's face ache as much as it wanted to. "I look ridiculous."

"Geralt…" 

"Don't. I'm right." He lied jerking his hand from Jaskier's grasp and rubbing angrily at his eyes. The kohl smudged but gave way, and he glared at the black smears across his hand; Geralt tried not to think about how horrible taking it off made him feel.

Jaskier was still as a bone across from him, looking as if someone had wounded him. "You're lying and we both know it, why are you so against this?" His voice held a thing veil of frustration born sorry. 

"You know just as well as I why I can't do this." 

"Enlighten me." 

"I'm a witcher, Jaskier. We aren't… we aren't  _ pretty _ , and we don't  _ wear makeup. _ "

"Who told you that? You're a fucking  _ witcher _ . You can wear whatever you want! No one is going to tell you bloody anything." 

"Doesn't matter. I've survived this long, don't need to change anything about what I do."

"But you're  _ unhappy _ ."

"Doesn't matter." 

Jaskier reared back as if struck, hurt clear across his face. "Doesn't matter- Geralt! Of course it matters, you have a  _ right _ to be happy. You should be- be allowed to be happy." 

Geralt couldn't contain the pitying look he gave Jaskier at that. The bard's voice was wavering, as if he was about to cry; Geralt was confused. Jaskier would realize it eventually, even as a small part of Geralt's mind whispered to him:  _ He hasn't left yet, why are you being such a coward?  _

Geralt pushed it down again. 

"Jaskier," he started, before the other flapped a hand in duress. "No! I'm not done with this, it doesn't matter if you're a witcher- I'm positive the other witchers don't treat themselves this poorly."

"Have you ever even met another witcher?" 

"Well no, but- don't change the subject. My point still stands, there's nothing wrong with being nice to yourself, or letting  _ me _ be nice for you! I'm sure others have taken care of you before." 

Geralt sighed, now wiping the rouge off his lips with the sleeve of his tunic. "Sure."

Jaskier's face brightened at that, before falling at the next sentence. 

"Sure, and then she left me on the side of the road to be picked up by witchers."

"But.. aren't witchers taken in as children?"

" _ Exactly."  _

Jaskier scrubbed a hand across his own face. "Geralt- listen.  _ Geralt _ . That's not your fault, you realize that don't you? Please say you realize that." 

Geralt didn't answer, snorting and moving to pull his hair out of his face. "I doubt I helped much with it." 

  
\----------

Jaskier could scarcely believe his ears. He could barely comprehend what he was hearing, partially convinced he might've finally gone daffy. " _ Geralt _ ." He barely managed to say, watching as the other violently - _ so rough, his skin was a vivid red struggling to heal with his witcher blessings- _ wiped off the makeup Jaskier had painstakingly applied. 

It was obvious to the bard that he didn't want to, that he was trying to smother a part of himself that should be  _ free _ . It felt as if nothing Jaskier did would fully convince him that he was  _ safe _ , that Jaskier would never dare hurt him in any way; would rather turn the blade or the word on himself that hurt the witcher. He had been through so much and it hurt to watch Geralt suffer, convinced of his monstrosity and inhumanity. 

Each time Jaskier would get relatively close to uncovering the hidden underbelly that Geralt kept protected from the world, something would happen to force him back in his shell. 

Jaskier would have to figure this out very, very gently. He loved the witcher so harshly, so deeply, he was shocked it didn't linger and leak onto his clothing like blood and wine.

His birthday was coming up, and as night came and Geralt stubbornly faced the opposing way in bed, Jaskier wished for something for the first time since his boyhood. For the holder of his heart to smile at him,  _ really _ smile. For him to be happy. For  _ them _ to be happy, together; it really wasn't a bad wish, if Jaskier was honest. Now if only the stars would grant it.

\----------

Geralt had never considered birthdays very important, didn't even truly know his own. It was sometime in spring according to Vesemir, and that was the extent of his knowledge. Jaskier, however, seemed absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of his birthday coming round the corner. According to him, they were important dates to immortalize, but Geralt still couldn't see it. 

He went along the best he could, enjoying the bluster Jaskier would get whenever he brought it up around Geralt. The witcher had been dragged around to each store he could enter without comment, his bard babbling about this trinket and that perfume as he picked things up and bought something new. All in all, a relatively slow day in a relatively slow town. 

Geralt even found himself smiling somewhat when Jaskier wasn't looking, the other's good mood rubbing off on him and lightening his heavy spirits. It helped that they haven't spoken of the incident in the inn, letting it lie and allowing Geralt the chance to stew over it and relax back into himself. 

Jaskier had a firm grip on the hem of his sleeve, leading him back to the inn with a determined look creasing his forehead. "I have one last request of you, Geralt of Rivia." He declared as they entered the emptied tavern, looking around. The rooms were likely to be sparse until nightfall, when the chill sank in and sent shivers up men's spine. 

A teasing sigh from Geralt as he cast Jaskier a fond, scolding look. "And what is this request, Jaskier?" 

"I want you to let me paint your face." The declaration sent Geralt stopping in his tracks, turning to stare at the man. "Just a request! I think I'd quite enjoy it though, especially since it's my birthday." It  _ was _ his birthday. 

"... Fine." The words surprised Geralt almost as much as they surprised Jaskier. 

"Really?!"

"I won't say it again, bard." At that, Jaskier's face broke out in a stunning grin; it took Geralt's breath away for a moment. He grabbed Geralt's hand without seeming to realize, before he raced upstairs with the witcher in tow. 

"You're going to be beautiful! Not that you aren't already beautiful- You really are, I wish you'd realize it. What I mean is beautiful in a way I feel you would like, come sit down! We've done this before. You must remember?" Geralt was slightly overwhelmed at the bombarding questions, merely nodding with a soft grunt and sitting on the edge of the bed where Jaskier had motioned. 

"'Course I remember, it wasn't five days ago." Geralt sighed, letting Jaskier maneuver him as he pleased before he rushed to rip several vials out of his back. 

"Of course, of course. Just small talk, dearest. I don't doubt your memory; swear it's stronger than an elephant's with how many times you can quote me." 

The familiarity caught Geralt off guard. The sound of brushes rattling, powders mixing as Jaskier worked near him. Jaskier's inane rambling about this and that. He could smell peppermint oil in the air and hummed slightly, enjoying the scent. "Thought you'd like that, it's always been one of my favorites too. Helps with those headaches you're always trying to hide." 

Geralt didn't try to hide his surprise at that, before signing and asking what had been on his mind since Jaskier requested this. "Why're you doing all this for  _ your  _ birthday, Jaskier?" 

"Well, it's rather obvious if you think on it, dear. I like taking care of you, and the sight I will be blessed to see after I'm finished will fuel an endless amount of ballads to your beauty." Jaskier concluded his statement with a flourish of the makeup brush. "Now! Scoot forward and let me near your lovely face." 

Well, what was Geralt to do but obey? 

He scooted forward with a small noise, brushing his hair out of his face before Jaskier flapped at his hands. "Stop that! I'm going to braid it after I'm done here." Geralt made a noise of exasperation, giving in and letting Jaskier do as he pleased. "That's what I thought, now: hold still for me, love." 

Geralt closed his eyes and allowed Jaskier to bustle near with the eyeliner. He tried not to focus too hard on the soft, silky feeling the pet name caused to bloom in his chest. "You really do look amazing like this, haven't you learned by now that I'd never lie to you? I'm almost positive you can  _ smell _ lies either way." He rambled as he efficiently applied the kohl, stroking a thumb across the pale hair of Geralt's eyebrow and cooing softly.

The smooth stroke of rouge across his lips made Geralt release a small noise from his throat, eyes fluttering open. Jaskier was barely inches from his face, eyes a vivid blue and brows slightly creased in concentration.

Geralt wanted to close the small gap between them with a fervent passion. When had he lost his heart for this man, and how did he never realize? 

He was so close, so close. If Geralt could just muster the courage to lean in a scant few inches and then… it would almost be perfect. He could see the light flush on the bard's clear skin, unscathed by war or strife. It pained Geralt to let him lean back, as Jaskier stared at him with a new sort of curiosity.

Before he had a chance to ask, Jaskier was speaking. "Geralt?" His voice was deeper than usual, and Geralt was almost paralyzed with the surge of emotion that drifted through him. 

"Yes, buttercup?" The pet name was one he commonly used, but right now it seemed like it meant something different. Something new. 

"Tell me if you dislike this." 

"If I dislike what-  _ oh."  _ Geralt barely managed to get out, before Jaskier was there again, a hand gently pressed against the flat of his stomach. Geralt blinked at him, feeling his eyes dilate as he waited for Jaskier to move again. He glanced at Jaskier's lips for a moment, and then the man moved and pressed them against his own.

It was chaste, as first kisses typically are, but good. Geralt hummed faintly in pleasure as Jaskier leaned closer, sliding a hand to grip the front of his ridiculous coverlet and keep him close. Withdrawing had Geralt making a small noise of complaint, though Jaskier didn't move far. He cupped his face in one instrument callused hand, pressing his forehead against Geralt's. 

"I've been wanting to do that for weeks." He softly confessed, voice hushed and gentle. "I think I've quite given you my heart; I don't want it back either." 

Geralt rose a hand to curl around the one on his face, nearly holding his breath. "I don't want to give it back." It wasn't a confession of love, except that it was in an entirely new sense. Jaskier's eyes brightened when Geralt smiled slightly, emotion turning his face raw.

"It's the highest honor I could imagine." Geralt couldn't say anything that, couldn't do anything except move forward to press another kiss to his mouth. Jaskier chuckled into it, raising a hand to stroke through Geralt's hair as he drew ever closer. 

He stroked fingers through the silvery mess, making a noise as Geralt crooned in enjoyment at the pressure against his scalp. They were slowly falling into each other, the outside world fading away until Jaskier moved his hand and Geralt made a startled noise of pain. He had snagged a tangle. 

Jaskier broke the kiss at that, trying to extract his fingers until Geralt made another, more annoyed noise. "Right- well, we should get your hair settled. This is going to need oil to work out all the knots I can feel." His voice was raspier than normal, something Geralt was rather proud of until it took on an edge. "Did you brush your hair this morning, Geralt?" 

He didn't answer, instead averting his gaze sheepishly. 

"... Geralt."

More silence.

"... _ Geralt."  _

"Yes, Jaskier?" He could feel his face flushing. 

"We're doing your hair now." With that statement in the air, Jaskier stood and made to grab the oil sitting by his pack, as well as a brush and strand of ribbon. Geralt wondered if he would braid his hair- if Geralt would let him braid his hair. 

Jaskier looked determined when he turned back to face Geralt, sitting on the bed and scooting behind him for access to his hair. "Right! I was thinking a pinned braid, it would frame your face quite well in my opinion." 

That took Geralt by surprise, that Jaskier knew what he wanted without asking. He probably shouldn't have been. 

"Is that alright with you, sweet?" 

Geralt took a moment to answer, the words not processing for a few seconds. "Uh– Yes. That is- yes it is." He tried not to notice the amusement on Jaskier's face. 

"Perfect, then. Hold still for a moment while I work these knots out, yes?" Geralt hummed an acknowledgement at that, carefully staying still as he felt oil softened hands thread through his hair. They worked up from the base, easing tangles out with a painless ease that Geralt was too impatient to manage himself. He let his eyes fall shut with a soft noise of appreciation when the hands worked up to his head, before whining faintly when they suddenly left and were replaced with a stiff brush. 

"None of that now, darling. I'm almost done and then I can show you just how flawless you look." 

Geralt preened somewhat, doubt gripping him for naught of a moment before deft hands began braiding the thick of his hair and Jaskier began to whisper to him like he had all those days ago. The fear was replaced with a strange sort of warmth, one that made his head quite fuzzy. Jaskier had kissed him. Jaskier had wanted to kiss him, and let Geralt kiss him again after the fact was done. He  _ wanted _ him, and then afterwards he stayed. 

It seemed like barely minutes had passed before Jaskier was pinning the delicate braid up, stroking his temples and pressing a kiss to the pointed top of one ear as he did so. "Here, love. Come look; you're the best gift I could ever be blessed with." Geralt couldn't quite stop himself from leaning into the display of affection, feeling as if he was melting before Jaskier coerced him back to his feet and to the lone mirror in the corner of the room. 

Geralt made a noise as he picked it up, wondering what he would see. He didn't expect to see himself; didn't expect to see what felt  _ correct _ for the first time in ages. 

A small, barely perceptible noise and Jaskier was already moving towards him. Geralt was staring at the mirror with eyes dilated and wide, unblinking and unwavering from where he gazed at his reflected face. His hair was braided and pinned, draping his face in white strands and softening the too strong lines of his jaw and brow. Kohl lined his eyes delicately, making the gold vivid and  _ beautiful _ , not the ugly amber born of abuse and fear and bloody pain. His skin was pale, blue veins fanning from his eyes and underneath the skin, stubble and shadow banished with Jaskier's own special brand of magic. 

Jaskier appeared in the peripheral of the mirror, and Geralt hardly noted the careful way he watched him; like a skittish animal. He supposed that was accurate, with the lead up to the now: hidden away in a locked room and near tears over his own face. He looked so  _ different _ and it was so good, and turning he hardly hesitated - he used to never touch Jaskier, so much had changed - to pull the man into a hug, words failing and falling to dust in his chest.

Jaskier didn't need words from him, silver tongue that he was. The tight grip Geralt had around his torso said enough, along with the head of silvery hair buried next to his chin. Unsteady breath brushed against his neck. He threaded his hands through Geralt's hair, shushing him gently when he felt Geralt's shoulders begin to shake. "Here, darling. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere either. You're so lovely, how could I go?" 

And he didn't. 

He stayed and held him close while he didn't quite cry, not really, but coughed and teared up the best he could with his damaged eyes. Tutted at his face, -flushed red, he was so pale that any sort of exertion would always flame his skin- stroked over his cheeks and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was so gentle, a gauzy affection that was nothing like the animalistic whirlpool between him and Yennefer. Slow and lazy, he could hear Jaskier's heartbeat press rhythmically against his caged chest. 

"Are you alright, darling?" He heard Jaskier ask, noting the pet name but finally accepting the burst of pleased emotions it set off in his chest and stomach. Jaskier smelt of  _ sweetlovehoneyedhome _ and Geralt felt as if he was melting in it, nodding faintly from his safe place in the crook of Jaskier's neck; safe from the outside world. 

"Can you speak right now? I think I'd quite like to hear your voice." The hand in his hair paused for hardly a moment before resuming, rubbing gentle patterns into his scalp and soothing the pressure still behind his eyes. 

"... I'm okay." He murmured into thin skin, enjoying the sound of Jaskier's blood flowing. 

"How do you feel? Be honest, for me?" Geralt was silent again at that, the seconds ticking by as he debated on what to say before finally deciding on the truth. For Jaskier. 

"Good. Really good."

"Pretty?" Jaskier asked, almost joking but serious all the same. Geralt chuffed a laugh. 

"Yeah, I- I think so. I feel right." 


End file.
